Harry Potter and the Elven Changeling
by FlitShadowflame
Summary: HP escapes being raised by the wretched Muggles. Rated for swears, rating is subject to change. Also, EVERYTHING I got IDEAS from is listed in the disclaimer. I promise this is all either original or HP. On hiatus.
1. Prologue: The Boy Who Lived

Note: Lily was a changeling (a fae-baby put in the crib of an infant). She took the form of her predecessor (the real, human Lily Evans, whose fate is as of now unknown) and was raised unknowing of her true heritage (with her foster parents similarly in the dark) by the Muggle Evans family. Her son's blood protection demands he is returned to her true ancestors, wood-elves.

Disclaimer: Avon is a real forest in England. Everything else is made up. The wood-elves (the species, culture, lifestyle, and characters) all belong to me, with the obvious exception of Lily Evans-Potter and Harry James Potter. They and all other characters (and species) of the _Harry Potter_ series belong to J.K. Rowling. I apologize for the recent low calibre of my writing; I am ill and wish that I could have written this story in better form.

-

"Where does the blood of Lily Evans-Potter dwell?" Dumbledore asked an enchanted parchment scroll in his office. He had just heard of her death.

To his surprise, many of the locations were not street addresses and house numbers. A bright, pulsating heading was the Godric's Hollow House, where Harry was still lying in the ruins. Many more dimly written names were in the Black Forest, but a good handful were in his own Forbidden Forest. Dumbledore turned around and gazed at it from his office window. One last, bright pair of names was filled in at the bottom of the list.

King Ofen and Queen Beluma, the Forest of Avon.

-

Dumbledore was not specifically prepared to meet a whole new species of reclusive elves, especially not their royalty. But the FamilyFinder had given these names and this address, so . . . he sighed. He'd have to cast the ward spell on the whole forest as a precaution, since there were so _many _family members in an out.

"You are Albus Dumbledore," an airy, not-human voice told him once he was escorted to the platform where the king and queen sat. The length of both monarchs' hair was identical, and both had feminine features more than masculine ones. "The child is a half-elf. Whose child?" she? asked the crowd.

"Lily. Lily Potter, née Evans."

"Née Evans? How very little you know about our world, Albus Dumbledore," the Queen scorned him. "Fire Lily, Tiger Lily," she sighed sadly. "We should have brought her back once she finished that dread school of yours. She should not have been caught up in your war," she continued to scold. "Very well. My wife and I will take our grandson. We can see her blood-sacrifice, and we know your intentions. We will cast the wards ourselves, human. Begone."

Albus Dumbledore was quite mortified to realize he'd misjudged the sex of a king. He was more than startled to be flung from the forest borders before he could even draw his wand, and still more surprised that Harry was no longer in his arms.


	2. Chapter 1: Little Henrik

If you're curious about the few German phrases I use (which are pathetically inaccurate just because they're modern German, anyway), I use this site - http/ www. freetranslation. com (without spaces, of course) Set it to "German to English" and let the computer work its magic. Other than that, I use Geliebter (beloved) instead of the more commonly known Liebling (darling, but also favorite) because a word that translates (even on occasion) into "Favorite" isn't something a parent of multiple well-adjusted children says lightly, even to his or her grandchild. Resentment in the ranks, and all.

-

"Little Henrik!" the captain of the guard called out, trying not to panic. Gerard would be in deep trouble for losing his charge so near the little prince's birthday. A child's giggle reached his ears distantly, and he raced for the sound. Oh, stars, how had the boy gotten so far up a tree? Reminding himself that his parents were both trained as magicians, Gerard steeled himself to climb up.

"Henrik, you really must come down," Gerard insisted in an archaic German dialect that his tribe had used since time beyond near memory – probably since moving to the Black Forest. King Ofen had been a second son to his own royal father, and decided to establish an independent colony in an English forest, Avon.

"'S more fun here," the child giggled back happily in the same language. "I can see your top-of-the-head," he laughed as if this was the most novel thing in the world.

Gerard sighed. "I am not cut out for babysitting."

Instantly Henrik was on the forest floor, pouting. "That was today's password. Do you ALWAYS know, Ger?"

"I do, little highness." He hid a grin.

Henrik sighed. "'M not much of a highness. My brothers despair of my manners. So do my sisters, for that matter."

"They're your aunts and uncles, not sisters and brothers."

"They certainly ACT like brothers and sisters, always fighting about . . . things with me. So many things. Why isn't Jaeger the prince? He's the oldest." Constant shift in conversation was normal for full-grown elves. That Henrik had enough of an attention span to get out a whole question was just more proof of his father's humanity.

"He knew early on he wasn't made for politics. He wants to be entirely self-sufficient, and maybe join the Guard."

"Why not Johann, then? Or Helmuth?"

"Johann wants to be a priest, of course. And Helmuth is more interested in living as a human wizard; healing and protecting victims of crimes like rape," Gerard answered, already tired of this conversation. Unlike the boy-prince, he was not half-human, and he had little interest in answering the same questions Henrik had already asked five times in as many years.

"And all my sisters?"

"Women can't inherit by our laws, Henrik," Gerard pointed out. "Not the throne of the elves, anyway."

"That's not at all wise, don't you think? Grandmamma most definitely the one who makes executive decisions in the family." That startled a snort of laughter from Gerard.

"Well, yes. But your Grandmamma comes from a matriarchal society, and as the third daughter, wasn't going to get much out of it. You know I'm as hopeless at politics as I am at babysitting, Henrik." This was a desperate attempt to change the subject, and effective.

"I don't think you're hopeless at taking care of me," Henrik protested, embracing Gerard reflexively. "And I'm pretty hopeless at politics too. That's why I don't want to be a prince." Though it hadn't worked as well as Gerard had hoped.

"Even if you are a prince, not only does it make very little difference to me, since I have seen you in every state of undress that parents are graced with, it also doesn't make much difference to your family. They all love you, Henrik. Even those sisters – harpies though they are."

"My sisters are not harpies," Harry retorted hotly, pouting.

"No, not really. But, even if you don't want to inherit, they won't think less of you. In families the size of the royal one, there's always someone willing to rule. And maybe your Grandmamma will see your Grandpapa about changing the title-inheritance laws in reference to females."

"Yeah, maybe," Henrik sighed. "Am I going to be trained like Mum was? With a bit of wood and all?" He found the whole idea distasteful, using bits of trees to do magic.

"Don't worry about the trees," Gerard advised. Henrik sighed again – Gerard always knew what he was thinking. "The wizards do ask before they take wand-wood, at least. And they only take a bough or two."

"Well, at least they're not as wasteful as the Muggles," Henrik admitted grudgingly. "Tree-killing…" he trailed off the words that were less nice. "When will I go to That School?" he asked. Gerard didn't need him to specify. His Grandmamma certainly called it that enough.

"When you're eleven. Not long, now, and they'll be sending an owl."

"An owl? One that delivers mail?" Henrik asked excitedly. "Like Johann's doves?"

"Bleedin' carrier pigeons," Gerard muttered. "Yes. The owl will deliver your letter. We have talked about this before."

"I know. But…I want to learn about them, you know? My parents. And, even though I do like elf-craft, even elf-mage-craft, I'm half-human. I want to learn about my dad. About his world. And the world Mum grew up in."

"You're very good at elf-mage-craft," Gerard said finally, feeling it best to ignore the rest of the rambling explanation. "Especially the parts with plants and animals, like Identifying and Properties and that Potions and Tonics and Poultices thing."

Henrik laughed. "They're all to do with plants and animals, really!" he confessed. "Though I do like animals – and plants, but animals are like children, a bit, if we just didn't speak the same language."

"It wasn't much of a barrier with snakes," Gerard snorted.

"But snakes and I DO speak the same language. And my snake is teaching me bits of Cat and Dog and naturally I know Bird. She's a good linguist, really, as good as Mandel."

"She's only nice to you so she gets a warm place to sleep," griped Gerard.

"She's teaching me animal languages because I'm interested and it's good knowledge to have. Not many animals learn languages other than their own, snakes included – it's part of her being a magical snake," he shrugged. "Anyway, I'd've let her sleep in my bed even without the lessons."

"But did we really have to find out with your Grandmumma screaming that a snake had come killed you in your sleep and not even bothered to take or eat the body? Mad hysterics," lamented a new voice – Maud. Maud was Henrik's oldest "sister", and Gerard's second-in-command.

Gerard really did like her, for all he called her a harpy.

Henrik did look a bit sheepish at that. "Well, it probably wasn't the best way to let on I could speak to snakes, but at least the entire forest heard about it at once."

"Screaming that loud? I'm surprised they didn't hear on the continent!" Maud laughed. "A little birdie came today, with an envelope that had your name on it and some funny address about a tree with all the pets. I'm not sure it's properly yours, seeing the downright rude way they called your private residence 'smallest personal tree-hut', because _really_, tree-hut? And you're the only youngling in the whole forest that lives alone, so why should your dwelling be in proportion to your title? That goes against the whole of our principles."

Henrik, however, was in no mood to be teased. His arms were crossed, lip jutted out, and eyes dark and mistrusting.

"Oh, all right. But it really did have us worried a bit, using that dreadful _name _you were meant to put up with."

"I've told you before I don't mind being called Harry. It just didn't seem…ostentatious enough for royalty. Besides, it wasn't an old German name. And names are about honoring your heritage, so…ugh, I'm hopeless at explaining my reasoning as a four-year-old."

"I still can't believe they expect a halfway suitable answer to a question like that from a four-year-old, even a royal one," Gerard mumbled.

"Oh, I was three when they finally asked, having called me Henrik for all the life I could remember. But it took a year before I was really rationalizing it to death."

"Henrik…oh, fine, _Harry_, I've seen your essays, and if that's normal, your idea of rationalizing to death is really daunting. Have you been practicing that long? Is that why Helmuth, who studied it for four years at that _dreadful_ "further learning" _prison_, can't do it half so well?" Maud was unbecomingly fond of her over-dramatized sarcasm.

"Helmuth's not a creature of reason. That's why he always loses at chess. He wants to learn healing, not rationalizing, so he won't do anything but."

"You were losing for a long time, up until you were about seven."

"I was a child. I didn't understand half the rules, and I wanted to go back to reading, where things were simpler and I could just _imagine _the rules."

"You've always been like that with games," Gerard sighed, joining in the discussion. "Disdainful until you master them, at which point you disdain everyone else."

"It's not disdain, and you can't stall me any longer – the letter's from Hogwarts, ja, Schwester?" he scowled at Maud.

"Ja, Henrik. From Hogwarts." She produced the letter with no small flourish – Maud had a tendency to do so. Instead of pulling it from her bag like a normal being would, she swirled her hands mystically until she had a sparkling whirlwind that POOFed the envelope into her hands, which she clapped together for dramatics and to keep it from floating off, just as another POOF (a sort of mushroom cloud of sparkling white dust, coupled with the noise as represented) was expelled from the bag.

"That's such a noisy, rude, and overtly flamboyant spell it doesn't bear repeating," Henrik glowered when the letter was in his hands, but he didn't mean it. Maud's overt flamboyancy was rather cheering, actually.

Mr. H. Potter,

Smallest personal tree-hut with the numerous animals,

Elf-forest,

Avon

He scanned the acceptance form quickly, uninterested in the formalities. "I don't know what we're going to do about writing a reply. Did the owl stick around?"

"For all Gerard calls them carrier pigeons, Johann's doves will be able to deliver your mail. I can understand why you'd like a more personalized pet to take with you…" Maud grimaced, realizing what she'd let on.

"I knew you'd read it before you dropped an anvil, Maud. I do know a seal-correction spell. Probably everyone but Gerard and I knew what was in it, anyway," Henrik sighed. Being a prince meant nothing about privacy. Everyone knew what was best for him except him. He was by no means pleased with it, but he was used to it, and mollified that this meant people cared about him. "You're right about the pet thing. I'd _like _to take my snake, but it says owl OR cat OR toad. I'm thinking it's either a dove – which, for wizards, does fall under the definition of owl on a Hogwarts advisory slip – or nothing at all. Bringing an owl, a caged owl that would like nothing less than to eat a small bird or my snake seems stupid."

"I wonder where they keep the birds, though," Gerard mused. "Ah, well. Logistics can be sorted out after the affirmatives and negatives. Channels, decorum, etc."

Henrik grinned. "Etcetera, indeed. Very different from the screaming lecture you just _happened _to overhear, and the very similar one delivered to you on proper filing of reports of relevance to the crown," he mused.

"Schließen Sie auf," came the muttered "plea" for silence. "Henrik, go back with Maud. Keep ready."

"Ready for what?" Henrik wanted to ask, but Maud was already pulling him close to her and doing her Poof-Out spell. All her spells had POOFing, even the useful ones.

Of course the "Royal Palace" was the same as always, but Maud was nervous. She instantly went to fetch more of the guard, informed Henrik to go to the throne room and _stay put_, and Poof-Outed the guard. Henrik warred between his inquisitive nature and his respect for Maud, and Maud won for the time being. He shifted himself soundlessly (princes don't POOF, he told Maud whenever she was offended by this) into the throne room. Once there, he took his letter and sat by his grandparents' feet, reading his letter. And if he leaned against Grandmamma in a child's expectation that her touch could make all monsters non-existent, well. He wasn't even eleven years old yet.

"Something wrong?" Grandpapa asked when his conversation with a Master Forager was over. Grandpapa didn't ask idle questions, and could tell easily when something was bothering Harry.

"Gerard heard something. Maud Poofed me back and returned with some of the guard. It's probably nothing. It's certainly been nothing every other time someone heard _some_thing and shifted – er, brought me home. Still." He made a non-committal gesture. "Besides, Maud read my letter already, and I knew if _she _had then _you _had, and I'd rather be with people who wouldn't taunt me, thank you very much," he said with no malice. "Not that Maud taunts, really," shrugged Henrik, returning to the supply list. "Are they sending someone, or do we have someone who knows where to go?" he asked apprehensively. "We probably _could _mail-order everything except the wand, I don't have a clue where to send that letter, and even if I did, I get the feeling wands need to choose _you_, not the other way 'round." Henrik realized he was babbling, which wasn't very princely, and closed his mouth.

King Ofen smiled at his grandson. "We do have someone for it, actually. Helmuth attended just before and after you were born, but most things should be the same. His vacation time's about up anyway, he'll take you to that – Diagon Alley place, for your things. And then he'll get back to the," he coughed.

"St. Mungo's special victims unit," Henrik reminded him, somewhat mischievously.

"I don't like losing my grandchildren to wand-sorcery anymore than I like losing my children to it," Grandpapa told Henrik seriously. "Be careful, princeling. I wish we had ordered That Wizard-Man to allow one of our guards with you, when you attended, but I suppose it's too late for that. You _will_ have privacy, if I have to commit murder. It was important enough to you at three to ask _politely _to leave the crèche permanently. It was important enough to give you your own, fully self-sufficient apartments at eight. The fact that you could cook a gourmet meal at the time and I had no idea makes me see that I _haven't_ been seeing you.

"What I saw was the mortal wizard-boy that took my daughter. But I'm also terribly fond of you, princeling. Geliebter," he insisted. "So be careful, and _listen to Helmuth_. He's not Jaeger, who I know _you're_ terribly fond of, but he's practically your brother, and he knows his way about these fool mortals."

"Helmuth is my brother, as much as Jaeger, and I love him as much," Henrik said finally. "Naming patterns," he mumbled vaguely, appendix to a thought he hadn't voiced. "Mum and Da – I won't say I wouldn't like to have known them, at least, if not have them with me, but you've done a damn fine job of being my Grandpapa, which is all I could ever ask of you."

Grandmumma scooped him up in her arms and swirled him about like she had when he was a baby. "Don't swear, Geliebter," she smirked. "You're not doing such a wonderful job of being a child, which is all we meant to ask of you, but I suppose it came out wrong." She took a deep breath. "It's good to observe manners, naturally. But we don't expect you to bow and show princely courtesy. Those mortals don't need to know that you're royal. It might breed resentment. And, oh, this is turning into another manners lecture," she cried, disgusted. She held Henrik close instead.

"What I mean, Beliebter Prinz, is that even if you do mess up terribly, hate the school, have no talent for magic, or throw grievous insults in a teacher's face – I will be appalled at the last, but I will love you through anything. Even drastic lapses in judgment like killing or permanently harming someone, but I prefer to not have you do something so reprehensible to know you are fully, completely, unconditionally loved by every sentient and sane being in this woods."

Henrik smiled fully for his Grandmamma. "Ich liebe Sie auch, Oma." He pulled her close, too.

The Poof-In was heard even through the thick throne room door, as was the argument Maud had Poofed during. Gerard was trying desperately not to scream, but he really hated being Poofed, and it wasn't a Maud thing. He didn't like shifting much, either, or any of the instantaneous transportation afforded of elf-mage-craft(1). At least, he didn't like experiencing them, and certainly not in the middle of a "conversation" which appeared to have been largely about Poofing and _why _Gerard didn't enjoy it.

"--DY QUEASY WHEN YOU EFFING PULL THE GROUND OUT FROM UNDER ME, _HIGHNESS_, SO IF YOU EVER WANT TO HOLD AN EFFING _BELT-KNIFE—_bloody hell, Maud, can't you even warn a body? Now I'm going to be sick _again._" Henrik flinched sympathetically at the dry, retching sound that followed. "Apparently I've got nothing left, and just as well, as I'd rather it was on the forest floor instead of the palace floor."

Henrik opened the door timidly. Gerard looked distressed to a point near hysteria as well as completely disheveled. Maud's appearance was one befitting a warrior-princess, naturally, but she carried herself with a look of gaunt horror. "Mutti," she sobbed, flinging herself across the room and in her mother's arms like a toddler banshee who had scraped her knee.

"Meine Prinzessin, what's wrong?" Grandmamma asked, bewildered by the sudden regression of her daughter to childhood.

"The West – Bloody tree-killers," Gerard swore, and that was explanation enough. But for his screamed complaints the moment earlier, this was the only time Henrik had ever heard him swear. Either he'd so lost himself in the situation, he'd forgotten about his young charge's presence, or he was so angry he no longer cared about the sensitivity of a child's ears – not that Henrik's were all that sensitive, after years with Helmuth.

"Tree-killers?" Henrik pressed. It would be his forest, too, someday, and it was his place of residence, now."

"Muggle-Mortals who want to build a bloody _shopping mall_ in our land," Gerard howled. "So they level the woods and don't even ask the trees or _use _them as timber or – or _firewood_," he said this word as if it were the worst curse of all. Even the least magical of elves could sustain a fire without so much as a twig from a tree.

Henrik could see his grandparents and sister were already going into shock, and Gerard was halfway to "stark, raving mad." He fluttered his hands inelegantly, the healing magic coming easily all the same. He had spent all his life getting normal bang-ups and more than four years of hols with Helmuth the Healer-in-Training, who'd practice all the time, he was so obsessed. Henrik was bound to pick some of it up.

This was complex and dangerous, but Helmuth had encouraged him to practice his affinity for help-mage-craft. Henrik carefully navigated the black tempest of rage that surrounded Gerard, going straight for the grayish semi-solid eye of the storm – fear. The corporeality of it said the fear was movable, but it was going to put up a fight, the color said something Henrik already knew – fear was both good and bad. It could galvanize one to action, but it could also paralyze his or her movement.

Henrik gave the column of gelatinous mess a few prods, and then an almighty heave. It shifted, and became white and granite-like again, with many-colored flecks. This meant Gerard was back to himself, mostly. The clouds turned a much lighter grey, which (though not altogether peaceful) signaled much improvement in and of itself.

He pulled his own consciousness back to his body. Maud was shaking him most violently, and shouting and slapping his face.

"Calm down, calm _down_," he said firmly, detaching his sister delicately. "I'm fine. And you really shouldn't be angry about that. I went to all this effort to make people not angry, not in that unhealthy, cancerous way that clouds judgment."

Gerard, meanwhile, had sat down suddenly, coughing a little and looking somewhat lost.

"Are you all right, Commander?" Maud asked in a strange voice, tight and formal and _out of her mind with worry._

"Yes, Maud," Gerard said faintly. "Though you really needn't have Poofed me out so…upset. It didn't help matters at all. Isn't that true, Henrik?"

"Well, the black cloud of fury was a bad sign that probably had something to do with being angry, Poofing angry, and staying angry. But the column of half-liquid ooze that emanated fear was stuck between fearing tree-killers and fearing what Maud could do to you if she wanted. You were probably concrete on tree-killers before she Poofed you, reminding you that she can do all manner of drastic things if she felt it necessary. And though this bothers me, it _is _good you didn't stay concretely terrified of tree-killers, because I'd've had a rough time pulling you out. Mental marble is still difficult to manipulate with elf-mage-craft, so I'm terribly glad I didn't need to try."

Gerard nodded weakly.

"Are you going to fear my intentions and skill, now? Because I don't think I'd be able to bear it, Gerard, really."

"No. And I never will. Because it's really only Maud that strikes the fear of…well _Maud _into me," he half-smiled to his second in command. "You're a very terrifying woman, Maud."

"Thank you, Liebster," Maud replied.

Henrik grinned, but quickly returned to solemnity. "What will be done with the tree-killers?" he asked.

"More wards," Grandmamma said tiredly. "That's all we really can do, except have the young ones chain themselves to the fringe trees, really. Which isn't necessarily a bad idea," she added thoughtfully. "Henrik, why don't you organize that? I daresay even those barbaric Muggle-Mortals will refrain from chopping down a tree with an eleven-year-old tied to it."

"Ja, Oma," Henrik replied with a shallow bow. He quickly made his way to a ledge he could whistle from and be heard – fortunately, several of the guards' posts had bullhorns. He whistled loudly into one to call attention to the noise, and bellowed, "Tree-killers! Operation Tree-Hugger Delta, West!"

This meant young only for the first line of defense – the attack was serious, but the senior elves would be using magic to combat it behind the lines. No chains were brought out yet, they'd only have to carry them. Magical youths pulled those that weren't closer, assembling themselves in pairs and trios some hundred meters from the western edge of the woods. That was when the chains were summoned or created.

Henrik took the smallest child and an infant with him to the very front trees. The little girl was three, and the baby was five months old. Greta grasped his hand firmly, but calmly. She was steadying him with her own magic, he realized, and quickly told her it was alright, in the sort of "baby language" not many elves keep up with past the age of eight. Henrik always liked speaking (and writing, as there was a primitive pictogram method of this, too) with the other children, even if they were younger than him.

The baby, a boy with flaxen hair and pointed ears, was already old enough to halfway understand this act of consolation. He reached a pale, chubby hand to Henrik's face, clumsily smacking his chin. Henrik knew the boy would be a blacksmith or a swordsman instantly, and smiled sweetly at him.

"He oughtn't hit you," Greta said darkly.

"He'll learn respect early enough, doubtless. What matters now is saving our home." Greta was the one who chained them up, though Harry helped her into the cuffs.

The tree-killers didn't return until the next morning. Elves knew better than to complain of sleeping upright with their boy princeling having done the same. Greta clutched his hand again, this time truly afraid. Mortal-Muggles were unpredictable at best when it came to nature. At least Mortal-Wizards in general were content to leave the remainder of the forests as they were.

The tree-killers tried all manner of threats and distanced cajoling to get the elves to leave, earning only jibes for their troubles. But then a tired-looking man approached slowly, hands extended.

"Listen, I understand wildlife means a lot to you. It must, I guess. But please, send the little kids home. I've got a couple of my own, and I need to know they won't get caught up in stuff like this."

Henrik growled, disentangling himself. He kept the baby with him, though. "Stay," he told Greta. Stroking the baby's head absentmindedly, he approached.

"Obviously the sit-in isn't getting the point across properly. So. You, at least, seemed concerned for the children here. Does it occur to you, that hundreds of species of local wildlife might be just as concerned for _their _young? I understand your job is to clear away for this _mall_. But destroying thousands of habitats, thousands of innocent lives – just like those of _this _child, and of Greta over there and all the rest – and not even using the wood? There's a reason you're called tree-killer, sir. You want to make a shopping mall to appease the general populace of your town? You chop down part of the history of the world. Then you want to make a movie theatre, and chop down a little more. And then they want a sunglasses hut or something equally inane, and you continue to indulge, indulge, indulge, until there is nothing left of the forests, of _their _inhabitants, their _populace_, and all those voices are silenced. Humanity really is a plague. It's alright to help other people, as long as I'm really helping myself, or leaving the door open to do so.

"On the other side of the coin, it's alright to hurt other people, as long as it helps me. 'The ends justify the means,' to quote philosophy popular to some." Henrik liked Machiavelli's works, really, though he didn't believe in his rigid approach towards life. Still, there was no denying the Italian's genius.

"How old are you?" the man whispered. "You're quoting Machiavelli – _what _are you?"

"If nothing else, sir, I am the only one who speaks for those without voices you can understand," Henrik said softly. "I could name you most species of animal in that forest, and a good number of the plants. I've grown up exploring it. My grandparents grew up exploring it. All of their grandparents too," he swept a hand at the elves still chained to trees. "Why do you think we're so passionate? We want our children to do the same." Henrik stroked the infant's cheek once more, and walked back.

The worker, whatever his name was, was moved enough to turn also, and walk away. He grabbed the suit who wanted to build a mall, said many harsh things, and then left. Henrik may not have used a bullhorn, but everyone in his vicinity had heard just as easily as the elves who responded to the all-call.

And all of them left, too. One by one, workers dropped their things, spoke to the foreman and the owner, and left. Once all his crew had gone AWOL, the foreman couldn't see the wisdom in staying, either.

"I will get this shopping mall – guh?" the man broke off, dazed.

"The new wards must've kicked in," Henrik announced in German. "We can all go now." The suit wandered off in confusion, and the elves melted back into the forest and instantaneously transported themselves and anyone who needed assistance back to the general area of their domiciles. Henrik shifted back with Greta and the baby, both of whom he returned to their mothers before going to his Grandmamma.

"When I asked you to head up the defense, I did not mean it as a reason to test the new code system, or to spend the night standing up," the Queen told him firmly. Then she hugged him. "I could see you walk straight up to them as we reset the wards. Oh, my darling, you terrified me. Mein Prinz," she murmured, nuzzling the junction between Henrik's neck and shoulder. "We'll have to add to your achievements," she said, touching his cheekbone with long, delicate fingers.

Henrik scrunched up his nose. "The oils sting when they go in, and I don't like the needles," he complained reflexively.

"All successes are marked by suffering. The inks are supposed to sting, and we use conjured needles instead of a much simpler charm on purpose. It's not supposed to be torture, but it is a rite of passage, and those do tend to sting a bit. Humility, to submit to the artist, strength, to endure the procedure, and pride, to wear your suffering and victories on your face. Do I need to tell you this every time, or will you someday take it without complaint?" she asked with a wry smile.

"Someday," Henrik mumbled, but followed her silently to the Royal tattoo artist.

Elf tattoos are a matter of pride. Deaths in the family, learning a language, learning a weapon, surviving dangerous classes like dueling and etiquette, and (for ambassadors and royalty) successful negotiations were all tattoo-worthy events. A simple glamour hid them from view in the Mortal world, though if an elf's attention was strained enough, they would be visible.

Fritz was a jovial type; though the artist did occasionally gruesome work (Helmuth's survival of a plague he'd helped treat had sparked a small image of the plague-hospitals, with hundreds dying in a room meant for no more than fifty. For Henrik's first successfully persuasive argument against a Mortal-Muggle, he was tattooed just under his lips with a delicate spiral with leaves branching off in all directions – each miniscule leaf representing its species of tree.

"You saved the forest before you even turned eleven," Fritz smiled at him when he'd finished. "You're a very special little Halfling."

Henrik had hugged Fritz after he said this; he hadn't been called Halfling as a term of endearment since he was seven, and found that he missed it.

Once Avon was calm again, Helmuth took Henrik to London with a lot of rules involving "Don't." Don't touch anything, don't say anything in English, stick to new German, don't talk about Avon or elves, don't ask anyone questions except for Helmuth, and _don't do any sort of magic at all._

An inquisitive child like Henrik found this unbearable, but endeavored to keep as quiet as possible. He knew Helmuth was just concerned that Henrik would be recognized as Harry Potter, the now world-famous "Boy-Who-Lived."

"Awkward questions and fame can wait until school. Your Headmaster has assured Mutti and Vater that you'll have your own room available, though you can stay with the other boys in your house if you'd like. Hogwarts does offer this to any parent who asks, actually, and about five or six students per year have their own room. Naturally, you'll use the same glamour I had to cover your face and ears, though I recommend you decide now on whether or not to show the scar."

Henrik had decided on "not," choosing to keep his appearance as unremarkable as possible.

Muggle London was new, but Diagon Alley was positively otherworldly. It was a sort of market-street, with dozens of shops all squeezed in beside each other. First, though, they had to go to Gringotts – well, the Northern European branch. Scandinavia, France, Germany, and a few other continental European countries used this branch also, according to Helmuth.

Henrik was taken to Ofen's vault, which was filled with gold, as befit a king. Elves often sold small crafts in Muggle settlements, and (since they rarely needed the proceeds) any profit went to the wizard vault. Helmuth told him that only a small portion was really needed to get him through seven years of school.

He only had three days until his train left, so Helmuth decided against taking him back to Avon, which had been considered. Henrik was glad he'd packed for ten months to begin with. His typical style of clothing was, thankfully, very similar to the Wizarding type, so he'd meet no questions over them.

Once the shopping was finished, he explored Diagon Alley thoroughly. Florean Fortescue's ice cream was divine, if oddly flavored, and he tried not to spend the entirety of his remaining vacation in Flourish and Blotts, instead reading his school-texts in his rooms when he ran out of things to do. He paid special attention to the content of _1001 Magical Herbs and Fungi_, since some of the entries were unfamiliar, or listed different names or properties than he had been taught.

Helmuth brought him to Kings' Cross by way of the underground, and they both had a good long laugh at the name, with Henrik the crown-prince and Helmuth a prince himself. But then Helmuth told him seriously in old German (a sure sign he wasn't joking, after all the warnings he'd given Henry about speaking it) "I hope you never come to this place when you _are _king, Henrik, because that will mean that you have taken on a great responsibility decades early."

Overcome with emotion, Henrik hugged his brother and followed him through the barrier to the Hogwarts Express. Helmuth helped him load his trunk in the back, gave him a few more rules in old German, and then BANGed back to his flat in Wizard London.


	3. Chapter 2: Harry Potter

Author's Note: There was a question about Immortality, and I wanted to clarify.

Though somewhat similar, my wood-elves are in no way related to Tolkien's Moriquendi, Silvan, Sindarin…these are not Tolkien elves. I haven't even decided if they're Immortal, they may just be very long-lived. And Harry would have a shorter life-span than a full elf, but still inhumanly long.

- Now that that's done… -

Harry – he must get used to calling himself this, he thought – searched for an empty compartment he could read his books in, having already changed into his normal clothes and thrown a robe on over it.

"Can I sit here? Everywhere else is full," a redheaded, freckled boy asked in English.

"Sure," Harry said after a moment's search for acceptable slang.

"Changed already?" the boy observed belatedly. "D'you, er, think I should?" he questioned helplessly.

Harry shrugged. "I don't feel comfortable in Muggle clothes." This was true enough. "It's the seams, I think." He didn't offer more than that.

"Oh. Well. I'll let it be, then," his new compartment-mate decided. "Ron Weasley," he said firmly, sticking out a hand. Somewhat perplexed, Harry nodded.

His etiquette lessons returning belatedly, he shook the hand and introduced himself also. "Harry Potter." He'd been practicing that for the last three days so he wouldn't muck it up, and he'd probably just mucked it up anyway. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance," he added, dropping his hand to his lap when they'd finished the greeting ritual.

"Oh!" gasped Ron. "The pleasure's all mine, really. Harry _Potter_," he sighed whimsically. Harry raised his eyebrows. "Muggle clothes really bother you? But I thought you were _raised _by Muggles?"

"That's a rumor only," two voices put in. Harry had heard the door open, and known there were two new occupants, but he hadn't expected a chorus. Redheaded twins observed him quietly. Measuring, Harry thought.

"Fred," one began.

"And George," added the other.

"Weasley," they finished together. "Pleasure," they continued.

Harry smiled. "Is all mine," he cut them off. "Oma and Opa do that sometimes."

"They twins?" Ron asked miserably.

Harry laughed at that. "No, I certainly hope not. My grandparents."

All three boys went red at this.

"Wizards?" asked one twin – Fred, Harry thought, if they'd introduced themselves, and not his brother.

"Of a sort," Harry replied vaguely. "Helmuth's the only proper, living wizard in the family." He frowned, wondering how to describe that relationship. "He's technically my uncle, but I call him a brother, anyway. Of course, I was always closer to him and Jaeger and Maud than Johann and the rest of my aunt/sisters." He decided to drop that subject. "What about your family, Ron? Fred, George, and who else? You could sit, if you like," he said in an aside to the older boys, who decided they did like.

"Well, we may as well start at the top," George and Fred switched off.

"Mum n' Dad," Ron put in. "Dad works in the Ministry, Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts."

"The Ministry of Magic?" Harry asked in clarification, getting affirmatives.

"Mum's stayed home since she had Bill," Fred put in.

"Bill's the oldest," Ron admitted, with the same misery he'd asked about Harry's grandparents. "He's a curse-breaker for the Egypt branch of Gringotts. He's thirteen years older'n me, graduated Head Boy."

"Then Charlie," George added.

"Second oldest, graduated a couple years back. Works with dragons in Romania (even though he ought to be playing professional Quidditch, he was the Gryffindor team captain at Hogwarts.) Mum sends him a vat of burn-salve every Christmas and on his birthday, but he still runs out," Ron rolls his eyes.

"And Percy." All three boys hissed slightly at this name, like they'd been stung.

"Percy?" Harry asked.

"He just got Prefect, won't _shut up_ about it. Real stickler for rules," Ron scowled.

"Fred and George," the twins repeated cheerily.

"Ugly, pranking gits," Ron elaborated on the names. "Can't leave a bloke alone for five minutes, love to badger and batter and bleedin' _bloody-up_ anybody who holds still."

"We're Beaters on the Gryffindor House Quidditch team," Fred explained in a stage whisper.

"Ron didn't like that we used his Puffskein for practice."

Harry's stomach churned. "Did you _kill it_?" he demanded.

Bewildered, they glanced at each other.

"Just stunned it a bit. Mum didn't like that, though, so she let it go off in the woods."

Harry relaxed again. "Go on."

"Well, then there's Ickle Ronniekins!" the twins said with maddened glee.

"He's about your age,"

"'lot taller, though,"

"bit gangly, really,"

"freckly,"

"got dirt on his nose…" Ron rubbed his nose furiously at this.

"But he's a damn fine chess player."

"Got a big old heart, too."

"Finally," Ron cut them off in an odd voice. "We've got Ginny." His voice grew warmer. "Only girl in the lot. She's a year younger than us, but very bright, even if she's shy. Wants to come to school – it gets lonely at home, with everyone else off and only Mum there. It was bad enough for me the last two years, it'll probably be worse for her, because she hasn't got…well, her. No one her age lives anywhere near us."

Harry smiled sadly. "Jaeger talks about – Tigerlilie that way. My mum," he explained.

"I thought her name was just Lily?" Fred asked with deliberate tact.

"Tigerlilie's a pet name, mostly," he broke off, blinking. "They don't talk about her very often, with me, anyway."

"What about your dad?" Ron questioned, clearly curious.

Harry laughed again. "The 'Wizard-boy who took my daughter'? That's what Opa calls him. James Potter," he said, somewhat wistfully. "I'm afraid I don't know much about him at all, but he never met my mother's side of the family, that I know of. Speaking of Opa, I need to finish his letter – I said I would before I left Diagon Alley. Though I don't have my own owl…" he paused, deliberating.

"The school has a small flock of official ones, but the Headmaster reads mail from them, I think," George offered.

"Ah, good. Opa will probably end up sending that taube anyway," he trailed off, lost in thought again.

"Taube?" Fred asked.

"Oh, I meant 'dove.' Johann calls them that, so it kind of caught," Harry shrugged. He didn't want to explain knowing two forms of German, as well as a multitude of other languages. "He trains messenger doves."

"What kind?" questioned Ron.

"Oh…he has a colony of different breeds of turtle-doves, and another colony of – well." Harry stopped. "Don't you dare call him a pigeon-fancier. Pigeons are rats with wings, and his doves are dead useful. He would never keep one of those awful Rock Doves – that's your common pigeon."

The twins were instantly scandalized. "We'd never call him a pigeon-fancier!" one said innocently. The other nodded furiously.

"All the same. I'd rather not talk about Johann. He's nice enough, but he is going into the bleeding priesthood, and I don't think there's a soul in my family who's pleased over that. At least Helmuth works at St. Mungo's."

"Which department?" Ron asked reflexively.

"Special Victims," Harry answered after a moment's pause. "He's terribly good, too, taught me loads of healing magic, especially when he had summers and hols from the academy or whatever. Which is just as well, because I've got bloody awful luck with injuries. At least now I can heal my own."

"At Hogwarts, yeah," George sighed.

"They pass out advisories – y'know, 'Parents are reminded that students are not allowed to practice magic outside of school.' Dead annoying," Fred muttered angrily.

Harry hid his grin at this. Helmuth hadn't had any trouble performing elf-mage-craft the summer between his fifth and sixth, or sixth and seventh years (the only ones Harry could remember Helmuth being there during. "I've heard interesting things about the Forbidden Forest," Harry mentioned after a moment. "Do either of you know anything about it?" he asked the twins.

"Well," Fred began with some trepidation.

"This is only what we've _heard_, mind," George warned him.

Harry couldn't help laughing again. "You've been inside, don't bother lying."

Fred coughed. "Erm. There's a great bloody load of spiders, for one – they keep hidden, but they get _huge_. I've heard Hagrid, he's a half-giant groundskeeper of sorts, actually raised the father of the colony: a bleedin' acromantula. Then he brought a mate for it - which was really dead wrong of him, seeing as you're not s'posed to introduce new species into the wild. Other than the spiders, there're centaurs and unicorns and stuff like that. No matter what anyone says, there're no werewolves. Real wolves, maybe, but there's so many Ministry restrictions, a roaming werewolf can't get within miles of Hogwarts on a full moon."

"Any snakes?" questioned Harry eagerly.

"Except Slytherins, we've never seen a snake anywhere near Hogwarts. Still, we aren't the type to check the fauna when we go gallivanting. We don't even go into the forest very often, we usually go _under _it. There's loads of passages out of or into Hogwarts," they answered.

Harry sighed. "I like snakes, but they weren't on the approved list of pets, so I had to leave her at home."

"What'd you name yours?" asked George, curious.

The elf-prince started. "Snakes don't have names," he told the redheads as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "They're solitary animals, they don't need names. You call them by their patterns. Only mammals and flock-birds have names, anyway," he waved the question off.

"Really?" Ron questioned. "How do you know?"

"I…oh, isn't it obvious?" he demanded. "Why would a creature that only meets its own kind to mate need a name? It could only be calling itself that, and why would it bother? That's a very silly question. But mammals keep their children with them for so long they need names, especially the ones who have litters or twins. You can't call four different children the same thing and expect them to know which one you're speaking to. Pack animals, like wolves, have names that change – when they're pups, it's silly names like Pouncer and Growlpup. But when they grow up it's names like Stubtail and Ragear. Of course, to a snake, all those names are silly."

"Why do you like snakes so much?" pestered Fred.

"I used to have nightmares about my parents. When my snake came, she chased the nightmares away."

"How?"

"Wrapped all around me like a living blanket," Harry smiled. "Oma screamed terribly. Everyone came, terrified that I'd been killed because of the way she was carrying on. My ears hurt for days. Maud still teases me."

George frowned slightly. "Is English your second language?"

Harry's head jerked up. "Ah…I'm really not supposed to tell anyone this…"

"We won't tell anyone, right, Ron?" Fred nudged his brother.

"Right," Ron nodded impatiently.

"Ja, Englisch ist mein zweite Sprache – my Oma and Opa don't speak English very well, they're from Germany."

"Oh," Fred mumbled. "Our mum still swears in Gaelic, even though she hasn't been to Ireland since she married Da," he offered.

Harry laughed. "Helmuth went to Ireland once on a sort of field trip – he was a bit disappointed, I think, that they didn't go to any forests. The whole family loves them – forests, I mean. The day I got my letter, a bunch of Muggles were going to cut down a bit of the forest near our house, and the whole family chained themselves to trees so they couldn't. It was…actually, kinda fun."

"Anything off the cart, dears?" a smiling witch asked them. The Weasleys frowned slightly.

"I'll buy," Harry shrugged. "Any suggestions? Never had much contact with wizarding candy, except the Chocolate Frogs that Helmuth's addicted to."

"Oh, you know Helmuth?" asked the witch, smiling even broader now.

"Yeah, he's kind of my uncle. Did you go to school with him?"

"Yes, then he went off to that Healing school, and I never did have much talent at medimagic," she sighed. "My name's Josephine, Josie Gooding. You tell Helmuth you saw me, and I'll give you four of everything for a quarter of the price."

Harry beamed. "Perfect. I'd've mentioned you anyway," he shrugged, pulling out several coins. "How much?"

The four of them gorged on various sweets, mostly unfamiliar to Harry. A boy with black dreadlocks swung by, introducing himself as Lee Jordan and dragging the twins out. After the twins left with Lee, and Ron decided to go ahead and change. While he was gone, a bushy-haired girl asked after some boy's toad, and a blond snob tried to persuade him to join his two flunkies and become a third. Harry laughed in his face.

"Draco Malfoy, are you? I've read about _your _family. Those that you can't buy off with bribery, you slander at every opportunity. Not exactly my kind of company. Besides, if you ever manage to figure out who _my _family is, you'll realize that _I'm_ out of _your_ league, Bad-Faith Dragon. Goodbye," he waved mockingly. "I was not born to be a lackey, so you can take your offers of 'friendship' and give them to _other people_ until you actually want a friend."

Furiously, the blond left, his cloak twirling and his lackeys following dumbly. Ron returned and Harry didn't mention Draco Malfoy.

The train slowed not too long after nightfall. A booming voice called first-years to him. A large man who was clearly a half-giant introduced himself as Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. He shooed the first-years into a small fleet of boats, but his large, black eyes caught on Harry. He lifted the half-elf up by the back of his cloak. "Hullo there," he rumbled.

Harry smiled enigmatically, and spoke two of the very few numbers of Giant he knew. "Greet, biggun." Biggun was really "Ga'nt," which was what Giants called their species and language. Greet was an all-purpose "Hello," the actual word being "Gyah."

Hagrid laughed a great, bellowing laugh, and returned it with, "Greet, littlun. Elfing?" "Littlun" of course, was Ba'nt – used to describe every beast or being that was smaller than a Giant. "Elfing" was actually "El'fring", an almost English contraction meaning "Elf-kin," or "Related to Elves."

"Half. Hushings. You?" Hushings was the best English translation for a Giant word that meant, roughly, "It's a secret, don't tell anyone." Hushings is used here, but the Ga'nt word is "Shuh," obviously in reference for the English "Sh" and Yiddish "Chah." "Half" is one of the very few numerical concepts that Giants use, their word for it being "Pell." "Pell-Ga" is more-than-half, "Pell-Ba" is less-than-half.

"Half," Hagrid agreed, setting Harry down. Ron quickly ran up, asking what that was all about. "Shuh!" Hagrid whispered roughly to Harry, who nodded firmly and refused to tell his new friend anything except that Hagrid was a nice fellow, and Harry was considering having tea with him in some vague point in the near future.

The boat ride to Hogwarts was quiet and tense. Ron and Harry shared their boat with the boy who had lost his toad, Neville, and the girl who had looked for it with him, Hermione. Hermione was rather insufferably bright. Harry frowned deeper and deeper as she babbled under her breath about spells and the Sorting and the number of staircases in Hogwarts.

"Hermione Granger, yes?" he asked after the boats were halfway there.

"Yes," she answered.

"While I'm pleased you've studied the school so extensively, and already have a rudimentary knowledge of magic and magical theory, there _is _a giant squid in this lake, and, though I love animals, I'm not in the mood to meet it just because you were so loud and fidgety it knocked the boat over in agitation," he told her softly. "Please keep your inner musings _in _your mind and _not _aloud."

She blushed and ducked her head. Ron punched his shoulder in a light, "Good-going" kind of gesture, which he glared at the redhead for. "I also don't intend to fall in on my own, Ron," he said pointedly. Hermione hid a grin, and Neville's mouth twitched in his round face. Harry smiled to, to let Ron know he wasn't really angry. Humans needed such reminders, he recalled from etiquette lessons. Elves would know simply by his eyes – but these weren't Elves, after all.

Slowly, the fleet made progress to the castle. Harry could appreciate the architecture in a vague way, but was not relishing the thought of spending twenty-one seasons sleeping in stones. His magic was perfectly adequate for an Elf, and he was positively sulky about brewing potions in a bloody _dungeon_, even if it would be easy as archery for him.

A stern woman answered the door after Hagrid's heavy knocking. She gave a lecture on the Houses that Harry didn't like much, either. Until today, he'd barely met anyone _but _family, and the idea that total strangers could _become_ family was a foreign, improbable idea that made him nervous. What if the priests became Johann's family, or Helmuth's coworkers became his family? His mother's House must have been her family, since the Bright Goddess knew her Muggle family could never have understood her. She would have been talking to birds at the age of _two_ if she progressed normally. That was when Harry had started, anyway.

Birds couldn't answer back properly (always talking about nuts and wings and moltings and silly bird things), like snakes, but they seemed to understand him well enough to know where he was sending them. They were too stupid for more than that, even if some of them did make pretty songs. He sighed, realizing that letting his mind wander hadn't distracted him from his discomfort.

Harry hadn't liked the look of the outside of the castle, and he liked the dark, dank cave of a room the first years were left to stew in even less. They were trying to make him more apprehensive, and he didn't like the drama of that, either. Ghosts came and startled most of the new students, and then the stern woman (McGonagall, the part of his mind that had paid attention whispered) came back and led them into a big hall with a ceiling bewitched to look like the sky.

There, at least, was something Harry could be pleased about. He smiled at the constellations and observed idly that the moon was waning again, almost gone. The severe McGonagall called named from a register in alphabetical order, after the hat on a stool opened its gob and sang. He settled back on his heels for a wait. Potter, after all, would come near the end. He easily figured out the names of the Houses and which table was which. Slytherins looked unsavory, all either big and mean-looking or small and sneaky-looking. The Ravenclaws were quiet and clever-seeming, curious as ravens.

Hufflepuffs welcomed everyone, and Gryffindors smiled and clapped for all their new additions, too. He noted that there were three redheads who looked similar, the twins included. A silver badge glinted from the third's chest – he must have been Percy.

"Potter, Harry," came the call of McGonagall, and Harry answered it, weaving to the front of the room. He easily heard the whispers from every corner, asking about his scar and his life and if he remembered, and they came from the professors, too, mentioning _James _over and over. He allowed the singing hat to be plopped on his head, and listened to the whisperings of the magical scrap-cloth.

The Sorting Hat's words were just as boring as McGonagall's speech had been, and his attention span was not particularly long for an Elf (a species with notoriously bad Attention Deficit Disorder.)

Harry crossed and uncrossed his ankles disinterestedly. The Hat muttered more furiously, talking about flagrant disregard, and finally called out "GRYFFINDOR."

The twins were chanting "We got Potter," and the rest of the table looked pleased as a punch, as did Professor McGonagall. Harry pulled off the hat, set it back down, and walked unconcernedly to his new House, sitting between Hermione (Granger, her last name had been called) and Neville (Longbottom, McGonagall had said.)

Ron was one of the last to be Sorted, and was positively ready to faint when he finally sat across from Harry at the Gryffindor table.

Headmaster Dumbledore forbid them from entering the third floor corridor and the Forbidden Forest, bade them to enjoy the feast, and said a few seemingly random words that were actually mild oaths in one of the more obscure languages Harry had learned. Well, he was mispronouncing them, but the words were certainly intentional.

The feast was large and impressive, but most of the dishes were too heavy for Harry's stomach – he had grown up in a largely vegetarian society, after all, which only killed animals when every part of the carcass would be used. Still, the poultry went down easily, since he'd always thought birds were more beak than brain, and there was plenty of fruit.

"Not much of a carnivore, are you, Harry?" Hermione smiled timidly. She, too, had only taken a wing from the platter of chicken parts.

"My family is mostly vegetarian," he shrugged. "We only eat meat on special occasions, like Christmas and Easter." What he meant was solstice holidays…but that would earn funny looks. "All life is sacred to us, and we try to use or sell every part of anything we kill."

"Why wouldn't you just buy some beef or something?" asked Neville.

Harry sighed. "Another aspect of our particular beliefs is that you should only eat what you can kill. That's part of the reason our forest is so sacred – we hunt there for deer, rabbit, and wild fowl, and fish in the streams."

Ron seemed to find this to be a daft way of thinking.

"Well, it's not for everyone," Harry added amenably as he finished his chicken delicately. Unlike the redhead, who had positively gorged himself and ended up eating the components of several birds in pairs, Harry preferred eating only one thing at a time.

Percy the Prefect stood when the meal was done, and led the first years to Gryffindor Tower. A portrait of a large woman in pink silk asked for the password – Percy gave it to her, "Caput Draconis." He directed the boys and girls to their dorm rooms and dropped his hand to Harry's shoulder to stay him.

"Your room is at the very top of the tower. Just keep climbing the stairs. Once I leave Hogwarts, you can have mine; it's warmer in the winter."

Harry bowed his head. "Thank you, Percy Weasley." They climbed the stairs together, and Percy waved him on as he disappeared behind a door.

The room at the top of the tower had a door with a vaguely elliptical shape. It was five and a half feet tall and curved everywhere except the three feet of flat bottom. Horizontally, it was about four feet wide at its thickest. There was a lock on the door, with the key inserted. Harry opened it.

Instantly, his homesickness vanished. Helmuth's sketches of his dwelling hadn't been idle play, then. He'd been working on a secret sanctuary for Harry all along.

The four-poster was decked in red, not green, and larger than his own, but otherwise identical. It had thick wall hangings for the winter chill, and a coverlet that would boil him in the summers, doubtless. The walls were the color of summer clover, and the floor was charmed hardwood with a large, handmade elf-rug covering a good deal of the center. A large desk held an inkwell and who knew what else, but the bookshelves almost made Harry weep.

Every language he knew was represented in dozens, but they would be charmed into harmless English bedtime stories when looked at by another student. His texts were shelved neatly, also, as were the extras he had bought in Diagon Alley. As a matter of fact, all of his things had been neatly stowed – clothes in the closet or the large bureau, school supplies in the desk, potions ingredients in a bag he had definitely not purchased, which had neatly labeled pockets for everything.

A note rested on his closed, empty school trunk, in Helmuth's hand. The writing was in an ancient Elvish dialect no one used except in ceremonies these days. Translated, it read,

"Little Henrik,

This was my room when I attended Hogwarts. It exists only for nonhumans and is spelled to move into whatever House they attend. A Gryffindor used it before me, and I was in Hufflepuff. Whatever House you're in, it will become your sanctuary. I had carefully recreated a normal Elf-dwelling for myself, I had a few details changed for you. Don't thank me, it was entirely the work of House-Elves.

Our little cousins number in the hundreds here at Hogwarts, they serve the Headmaster. I don't find this to be very flattering to our (or their) heritage, but the House-Elves seem happy enough with their lot.

If you every happen across a large portrait containing a bowl of fruit, tickle the pear and open it. You can thank them personally.

-Helmuth"

Harry pulled an anthology of Machiavelli (in its original Italian) from the shelves and read himself to sleep with dreams of politics.


	4. Sorting Interlude: James Potter's Son

Note: Hey! I've got a new language editor, so I get real-people translations now! Yay! I'm feeling much better, school is well underway, and I have had the worst Harry Potter writer's block EVER. I still haven't finished book six, though I only have about 100-odd pages left. Little Harbinger asked that I tell you what the Sorting Hat was going on about while Harry was chasing butterflies in his head, so I decided you shouldn't suffer any longer, and will post an intermission-type chapter following this note and disclaimer. This is incongruous to the story, kinda like a deleted scene. Or you could imagine that once he got tired of politics, his subconscious regurgitated what Gryffindor's old topper babbled about, and I was moved to include the comments from the other students and the professors.

Disclaimer: I HAVE NEVER READ ANY FICTIONAL MATERIAL PERTAINING TO WORLD OF DARKNESS. Out of curiosity, I visited the official (?) webpage, and it seems to be about vampires. I don't quite know why it was mentioned as being absent from my initial disclaimer, but after some thought I went with plugging in an additional disclaimer, with this information included. I hope everyone understands that I can't say every book that HASN'T influenced me, and you really must trust that I list all the ones that HAVE influenced me _in plot, characters, actions, dialogue, or setting of THIS STORY_, which I will list now to the best of my ability

1. Naturally, Harry Potter novels 1-5 and the aforementioned first two thirds or so of the sixth book inspired the fanfiction and plot as a whole.

2. The Niotan species from the _Star Wars_ fanfiction _Tiercel_ by Vermilion Flame (who is not archived on this site) inspired, to some degree, the tribal markings on the elves.

3. A book I read in like, fifth grade about a faerie changeling, which I was spontaneously reminded of while contemplating Harry Potter's family. I mean, come on, my grandparents have several siblings apiece, many with children and grandchildren of their own. There's no way that Petunia and Dudley would be the last living carriers of Evans' blood. Albus probably used a spell to find the closest blood relative, and I doubt Petunia was the only one on the list.

That really is all I can think of.

-Sorting Hat-

"_James Potter's son…"_

"…_Harry Potter?"_

"_Harry Potter!"_

"_She said he was Harry Potter, oh, Merlin, I think I'll die of shock!"_

"_I knew he would be a young first year, but he doesn't look more than nine!"snorts_

_-"Wait, Percy, who's Harry Potter?"_

_-"He's only the greatest wizard that was ever born!"_

_-"She's a _normal_ Muggle-born, Hermione…most girls don't read your kind of book for entertainment."_

_-nose upturned"Sorry, Neville."mutter"Philistines."_

"…_James…"_

_-"Think he remembers that Halloween?"_

_-"Not a chance! He would've been what, two years old, tops?"_

_awed whisper"…So much like James…"_

"_I wonder if he dreams of He-Who-Must…"_

"…_Another fool Potter…"_

_-"Ten Galleons says he's a Gryffindor, Lee."_

_-eyes roll"I don't take sucker bets, Fred."_

"_Look at those pretty green eyes!"girlish cooing_

"…_tiny bloke, isn't he?"snickers_

"_He's a lovely little lad, Professor Dumbledore, sir, said a few words I didn't for the life of me expect from a Littlun, so charming…"_

"…_his hair is just as unkempt as his father's, he clearly thinks he's some sort of royalty, strutting forward like a mangy old cat – _terribly_ sorry, Minerva." sarcasm_

**Another Potter boy, hm? Ah, he and Lily did manage it, then. Good, good. Potters were always strong hands for Gryffindors, while Lily and her brother really could have gone almost anywhere. Of course, she didn't know he was her brother, and he didn't remember her too well, but Helmuth would have done just as well in Slytherin or Ravenclaw, as would Lily. Pity that the Slytherins found out she wasn't a pureblooded witch; she would have done well by them.**

**But I suppose James wouldn't have paid much serious mind to a Slytherin, no matter how pretty and bright. As much as I like my former owner's House, its occupants tend to get quite prejudiced if the teachers don't work at keeping them civil. But I trust that the young prince knows when to hold his tongue?**

**You, now, are perfect for each house. Exceptionally brilliant and well-prepared for school, which is an Elf trait if I ever saw one…though you're not paying a whit of attention to anyone, myself included, you will undoubtedly do well in Hogwarts, and your hunger for knowledge would gain you prestige in Ravenclaw.**

**Slytherin is equally suited to you. Though not naturally overly ambitious, you do strive for improvement, learn from failure, make true friends, and Elf-magic is considered a Dark Art by the Ministry, if only because they can't track it or practice it without elf-blood and exceptional raw power reserves. Truly a flagrant disregard of the customs of a magical being – almost as much of a flagrant disregard as you are showing me now, young Prince Potter.**

**Ah, the lacking attention span of youth. Strange that James had so much less than Lily when it came to class, but stranger still that he could overcome that and dedicate himself completely to something as monumental as wooing her. No matter.**

**Helmuth, your uncle, he was a fine Hufflepuff, and you'd do well there, also, highly loyal, honest, and trusting.**

**But no, Gryffindor is best. Brave, with the nobility of your father's great family and your mother's royal lineage, combined with the courage of a lion – I see that little protest of yours, Prince Potter. Enjoy your new House.**

**GRYFFINDOR!**


	5. Chapter Three: Baby Griffin

A/N: In reference to Harry's discussion with Hermione over the German language, I am well aware of the fact that English is incredibly difficult to learn, and this is one of the reasons I have been given for that. I am not sure, however, if that example is specific to German, or if it pertains to the language at all. I also find I don't care. Even if I am proven wrong, I'm not going to change it. Terribly sorry.

I do know, however, that German and English are derived from the same Proto-Language, and thus their more basic words are typically cognates – the first few numbers, things pertaining to the family or early farm life. Adjectives, though, are tricky things in any language, and English has a myriad of the little buggers, thanks in part to Shakespeare.

In case you haven't noticed, the titles of the chapters are all names that someone calls Harry in that chapter. It's not really relevant except to give me some idea what sort of thing to include. If anyone has suggestions, please don't hesitate to tell me in a review. I don't need any help with Snape, though, I'm finding it surprisingly easy to write him relatively in character. He's such a wonderfully snarky git.

While I've (hopefully) got the attention of a few of you, I'd like to note that this truly is an AU. Overall, many events in the books will occur exactly the same in my (potential) series. The order might be shifted slightly, but the perspective, dialogue, character placement, and general character development will probably possess the major changes.

Also, this chapter might be a little shorter than the rest because I want to put Double Potions in a separate one, though "Baby Griffins" corresponds to "The Potions Master" in book one. Furthermore, I drew up a rough class schedule (took about four tries) using some inferences from the book, and described the classes as similarly as possible to JKR while using my own words and keeping Harry in my fanon characterization.

Not that anyone but my beta probably read this, but: Enjoy.

--Chroni

-

"Better get used to earlier days, baby griffins," an older Gryffindor girl chided the first years, who were yawning and stretching on their way to the Great Hall. Harry had woken up at dawn to go exploring, and was just returning as everyone else was leaving.

"Harry, mate, what were you doin' outside?" Ron asked, befuddled by sleep.

"Didn't want to be caught lost in a place this big," Harry explained. "Goodness, but this is a large castle. I think I figured out a shortcut to the Great Hall, though."

Neville and Ron both seemed to think that finding their own way to breakfast would be a daunting task, and agreed to come along.

He had indeed found a shortcut, and the sixth year who had called him a baby griffin was quite surprised that he had arrived before her. Breakfast was also too heavy for his liking, though he did enjoy most of the pastries – even if they were filled with sugar. Professor McGonagall passed out schedules to the Gryffindors.

"Ugh, double Potions with Slytherins," moaned Ron. "They'll be dreadful. And Potions is taught by Snape, I've heard all about him from my brothers. Just like that greasy git to teach a slimy subject."

Harry frowned. "The books he assigned were quite interesting, I thought, though the German translation left something to be desired, even if there was less esoteric jargon. I'll never understand the English need for more synonyms than one has true use for."

"I don't think I'll dignify that remark with a retort," Hermione informed him. "But clearly you've not read Shakespeare."

"Who?" Ron asked cluelessly. Both Harry and Hermione rolled their eyes.

"I must point out that you _have _dignified my remark with a retort by orally refusing to do so. Naturally I've read the Bard, and I do enjoy his works. But it's daft to have so many words for the same condition, even nuances of that condition. And that's not including the phrases which mean the same thing, and words borrowed from other languages which _also_ mean the same thing. Much less plants, animals, and minerals with five _English_ names, discounting the names in other languages."

Hermione scowled further.

"What I meant was that, in German, there are only so many words to define each condition, so you aren't perpetually looking things up."(1)

The Muggle-Born witch seemed to consider this, but Harry's attention had already turned back to his schedule. Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, History of Magic, and Astronomy all sounded like interesting enough classes. Ron was positively bemoaning finishing the week off with Double Potions with the Slytherins, however.

His schedule came out something like this –

Monday: Herbology and History of Magic

Tuesday: Charms and Herbology

Wednesday: Charms and Herbology, with Astronomy at midnight

Thursday: Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts

Friday: Double Potions, with the afternoon off.

Herbology was taught in the greenhouses behind the school, and the dumpy little Professor Sprout was quite kindly to them. Harry, having lived in an undeveloped forest for as long as he could remember, won more points for Gryffindor in that class than the other first-year students' combined points for the rest of the day.

After lunch, the first years dragged themselves to History of Magic – Harry and Ron had already heard of the legendary boredom in store for them. Binns was a geriatric ghost, who had died in his sleep during the early nineteen hundreds, and never seemed to realize that he was no longer corporeal, preferring to simply continue teaching the same boring syllabi. Harry's already notoriously bad attention span barely let him listen for two minutes about Uric the Oddball before he completely zoned out.

Professor Flitwick, a tiny little fellow Harry thought might be half-goblin, toppled over when he read Harry's name on the register, squeaking excitedly. His starting lecture was highly animated and enthusiastic, making all the first years smile.

Wednesday at midnight, everyone trudged up to the astronomy tower to peer through their telescopes and memorize planet names and movements, and so forth. Harry was keenly interested in that class, as the night sky was a highly favored way for elves to divine the future, alongside casting and elemental scrying. He paid particular attention to the English names of the few constellations that he had learned the German names for.

Thursday started out with Professor McGonagall, the severe-looking Transfiguration teacher. As strict as she was clever, her class began with a speech filled in warnings that Harry wasn't sure he could accurately describe as a lecture. Mostly she scared them off horseplay in her presence before turning her desk into a pig and back in mere seconds.

Harry could perform complex transfigurations through elf-mage-craft with ease, but with a focusing tool, his power acted differently. Instead of a broad flow that accomplished several things at once, he had a thin stream of magic he needed to apply to each detail one at a time. It took him a few tries to master the technique, since he was working largely with advanced magical theory and trying to temporarily forget everything he'd ever learned about magic at the age of eleven, but he felt highly accomplished when Professor McGonagall showed off his needle along with Hermione Granger's. Hers was silver and pointy, but his (duller and looking like dirty silver, with its lackluster sheen) had the added detail of a small, slim loop for thread, though it still clattered like wood instead of ringing like silver, as Hermione's did.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was the latter Thursday class, and turned out to be something of a joke. The room reeked of garlic (allegedly to ward off a Romanian vampire Quirrel had crossed), the teacher made sideways mention of brave deeds but never went into explicit detail, and as for Professor Quirrel's manner of dress, the Weasley twins insisted that its own lingering stench of garlic was meant to protect Quirrel wherever he went.

On Friday morning, a veritable flock of doves arrived, easily dodging the hungry-looking owls, and neatly stacking his mail. Seventeen letters, he counted with a grin, all written in German so he wouldn't feel too inundated by British wizarding culture. He pulled the first off the stack, from Helmuth.

The older elf-prince congratulated him on being Sorted into Tigerlilie's House, and asked if he liked his room. Harry reminded himself to thank his brother.

His grandparents sent a lengthy epistle detailing the latest whimsy of the marvelous Maud, who was fully acknowledging her desire to "court" Gerard, and had gone about it in a rather noisy and explosive way, as was her wont. They mentioned that the humans of Avon had not turned a greedy eye to their woods again recently, and they weren't expecting any more infringement on their privacy in the near future.

The King and Queen formally requested the right of visitation to their Grandson and Heir on the eve of the Autumnal Equinox of Headmaster Albus Wulfric Pervival Dumbledore. Harry figured this to be the translated statement they requested of Dumbledore, who had a dove perched on his pumpkin juice.

Maud sent him a letter also, briefly outlining her plan to woo Gerard and asking for suggestions and Princely Support. He had both, and would tell her as much in his reply, hopefully with consultation from the Weasley twins.

As for the Commander of the Guard himself, Gerard's letter was longer than Maud's, but still fairly brief.

_Little Henrik,_

_I know you're probably busy with your schoolwork already, and I hope Hogwarts is treating you well. Most of all, I hope you are safe, and wish I could be there to reassure myself of that fact._

_Your sister is driving me mental, however. I take back what I said – she _is _a harpy, no doubt about it. I'm unsure how I feel about her reflexive use of 'craft when she's in trouble, considering the way Rogue Elves love to bind us in cold iron and laugh when we nearly kill ourselves trying to magic out. That's not the only time 'craft does more harm than help. Parts of the world are magically null, and using magic there once will drain your reserves to nothing. Twice could kill you._

_Sometimes, though, magic is the only answer, and I appreciate that. I just wish Maud wouldn't rub it in my face whenever that was true. If I didn't like her, she wouldn't be my second in command – hell, she wouldn't even be in the Guard. I'd like to think I'm not biased, but it's the truth._

_You, at least, are subtle in your use of magic. I always enjoyed your outlook on instant transportation – I remember when you were just a toddler, and disappeared from the palace when we were trying to get you in a bath, and reappeared about five kilometers off. It took ages to find you because you wouldn't make a sound teleporting, and you always had sharp hearing for a Halfling. Of course Their Majesties only asked why you had not chosen to have a noise accompany your entrance and exit, you replied it did not befit a prince to bang or pop or boom or poof like the rest of the royal family does. It was not regal or terribly practical, you said, to announce one's presence with a singular, loud noise and draw attention to oneself._

_Even at the tender age of two, you were thinking about court intrigue and practicalities and proprieties. Even the ever-severe Jägar, or Johann didn't become so princely until four or five. I wonder if you grew up too fast because you were the crown's last chance for an heir, or if it was due to Tigerlilie's death._

_In any case, your sister is mad as a hatter, and something must be done. By the way, I'll be accompanying your grandparents to the school, as will Jägar. The meeting with Dumbledore will be deathly boring, and I'll probably end up talking to our little house-dwelling-cousins about your security. If there are any potential openings on the staff, I might plant one of my guards. Of course I'd rather come myself, but the rest of the family needs protecting too._

Harry smiled to himself. "That's Gerard," he muttered aloud. "Overprotective, as usual."

_Don't forget your manners around your grandparents. They'll be disguised as older for their attendance of the "Halloween" feast, but no amount of disguise will stop your Oma from bending you over her knee in the middle of the dining hall. Don't give her any reason to; I doubt she wants to embarrass you like that any more than you want to be embarrassed. Don't swear, use the wrong fork, forget to smile politely, bow, whatever._

_It's possible they will be announced as themselves or someone equally royal, and not as relatives of yours. It depends on the status of the school's security, and whether or not all involved are comfortable with the arrangement._

_Be careful until then, eh, Henrik?_

_--Gerard,_

_Capt. of the Royal Guard_

_P.S. I sent a _Taube_ or four of Johann's with a gift for you. It will arrive later; Helmuth tells me that this will arrive in the morning, and I don't want everyone to see. Open it in the privacy of your room, I don't think they're entirely permitted, but I figured you could probably use some of it if in the little predicament presented by cold iron. Carrying them everywhere concealed would likely be a good idea._

Now that's just paranoia, frowned Harry. Wonder if it's daggers, throwing knives, or lock-picks?

"That's a pretty long letter, mate. My mum just tells me to shower regularly and that rot."

Harry smiled amusedly at Ron.

"Who's it from, anyway?"

"A kind of…uncle. A very dear friend of the family, at least."

"You've got an odd family. Your aunts are sisters, uncles are brothers, and people with no blood relation are uncles?"

Harry snorted. "Wait until you meet my grandparents. Actually, until you meet any of my family."

"Yeah, well, I guess I haven't much to talk about, what with five wizard brothers and a little sister with such a mean hand for hexes. Gets it from Mum's side, my uncles were Fabian and Gideon Prewett – Aurors in the last war. Mum was never the same after they died, Dad says, named Fred n' George after 'em…sorta."

Noting it was getting late, Harry put away the unopened letters to read later, and folded and secreted away Gerard's and his family mail. He started on his way to the dungeons, leaving Ron to finish his meal.

On his way, he mulled over how deeply he was dreading this class. Professor Snape had given him a glare of pure dislike, which was something only that Muggle-Mortal businessman had ever done before. Harry was mentally and emotionally prepared for every political and social unkindness, but the inherently unjust relationship between teacher and pupil would require all his tender balance and a well-maintained wall of faultless brilliance and politeness.

Furthermore, he planned to sit as far away from Draco Malfoy and his cronies as possible. The boy was highly unpleasant for someone supposedly brought up in proper wizarding society, and Harry found Ron's rude table manners and tactless blunt honesty preferable to smirks, sneers, and backstabbing bad faith.

As for Dumb and Dumber, the two mountains of muscle had just enough grey matter to coordinate motion, breathe, eat, sleep, and grunt. Anything beyond that was subsequently beyond them. Not the type Harry would associate with, even as bodyguards or lackeys. Of course, he'd never had need for lackeys, and had always had professional bodyguards – such as Gerard.

And no one, in Harry's mind, could hope to compare to Gerard.

He looked at his watch and scowled at the realization that he had gotten all the way to the class's door while his mind had wandered. He had meant to dawdled a bit and come in five minutes till class, but he was more than a quarter of an hour early for the bell. "Nothing else for it," he muttered, opening the door and choosing a seat to the opposite of the door but near the front. By now, Harry understood the layout of the typical Hogwarts classroom and the impression given by each seat.

Close to the door: wants to be out of there as soon as possible.

Back of the class: goof off.

Right in front of the teacher's desk: used to being an intellectual favorite, regards teachers as equal; know-it-all. (Hermione frequently chose those seats.)

Just adjacent to the know-it-all: teacher's pet, eager to do errands and skip class or lord the status over friends and rivals.

By the walls: sleeper.

Center: moderate, able to be molded into the category of "learner" if the student isn't there already.

But Harry's seat would present the perfect impression: wants to be able to hear, but not be singled out for attention. It wasn't close to a wall, so he couldn't lean against one to doze off, and he was near to what he assumed was the supply closet, and thus, always pleased to brew.

While he meditated on this, he brushed up on his _Magical Herbs and Fungi_, taking a few notes on parchment, including a reminder to write his family and Gerard (written in German.)

He didn't even realize he'd been reading the German copy, or that everyone had filed into the room, until a wand pricked the spine of his book.

"You will read, write, and speak only in English in my class."

"Yes, sir," Harry replied neutrally. He switched the book for his English copy and lightly placed it on his desk, getting fresh parchment.

* * *

(1) My beta tells me this is wrong. Apparently, German has just as many synonyms and similarly defined words. Shrug Getting rid of it spoils some character development, and I'm too lazy to rework it to argue about something else. 


End file.
